Eternity...
by Maladetto Lupo
Summary: Angel reflects on his past, and its horrors spill into his present. Please, this story is just as much for the reader, moreso, as it was for me to exorcise my own demons...r/r, and enjoy.
1. Default Chapter

Rating: PG-13, a little violence, a little blood.  
  
Disclaimer: Angel and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon,   
Mutant Enemy, Fox, etc., ad nauseum. All other characters, places,   
incidents, etc. belong to me, and are copyright...well, me.  
  
Distribution: As long as it isn't altered, and proper credit is   
given, please feel free...I just ask that you let me know if it's to   
be anything more than a single printed copy or e-mail, or if it's   
going to be put on a site...I'll more than likey give permission...I just   
like to keep track of things.  
  
Feedback: Please. It's welcome, encouraged, and begged for...I love   
to hear of the various reactions people get from reading my work. Otherwise   
I'm just another guy talking to himself.  
  
Notes: The first installment of the "Anima Di   
Vagabondaggio" (Wandering Soul) series.  
  
  
  
  
I. Eternity  
  
"You never said forever  
Could ever hurt like this…"  
--Marilyn Manson  
  
Los Angeles, Somewhere in Time  
  
Normally the air in Los Angeles, though quite often murky with smog, was relatively dry. Tonight, however, moisture hung thick. The city collective had a thin film of water covering it, giving everything an eerie, translucent quality and making it all slick, almost slimy, to the touch. Mother Nature's tribute to her City of Angels. The outward appearance of the city, tonight, truly reflected its character.  
  
It was one of those nights when breathing became a chore, and every labored drag of air felt like it was being pulled through a dirty, wet sponge…One of those nights that made him glad he didn't have to breathe. Long black duster pulled taut behind him, his hands stuffed deep into its pockets, the figure moved slowly, his eyes sweeping back and forth. He was searching. For what, he didn't know, not exactly. Maybe it was life. Maybe death. Maybe salvation. Not his own, on any count. He'd long ago stopped hoping to find such things. That was his curse: an eternity. An eternity without release. He gave others life…salvation…release. He was an Angel. Once, however, he had also given them death. There were so many…for so long…So many lives in so many lifetimes…and he'd loved every minute of it then…before he…  
  
He felt the girl scream before he heard it, really. His head snapped up. A few blocks ahead, he guessed and, judging by the muffled echo following it, coming from an alley. So predictable, he thought. No imagination. The scream died away as he ran. He stopped and spun on his heels, unsure of where to go. Then he smelled the blood…and he knew.   
  
In an alley, just as he'd predicted, there lay in a heap, the broken and bloodied form of a young woman. The lingering scent of something not quite human mingling with the intoxicating aroma of the girl's blood revealed her fate. Vampire, he thought, a young one. Only a newly born vampire would be so careless with a kill. Muscles tensed as he prepared to give chase. He took his first step just as the girl gasped, pulling in air violently, clinging to life. A look of genuine surprise, something quite rare after all this time, crept onto his face. He knelt down next to her and heard her choke a single word through the rivulets of blood that flowed from her mouth down to the pavement where it mingled with the gravel and ran under his shoes: "Please."  
  
*********  
  
Roscommon, Ireland 1803  
  
A scant few candles lighted the grimy tavern, and even they were sputtering out. But the liquor was plentiful, and to most, that's all that mattered. The dozen or so patrons weren't there for the atmosphere. They were there for drunken bliss…perfect happiness…release.   
  
Bar fights were not an uncommon thing at this particular tavern, or any other for that matter. When the moon rose and the amber ale started to flow, things got rowdy. She understood that, even accepted it. After all, the drunkest fools were always the most likely to slip a few extra coins into her apron pockets. She was beautiful, they told her… She was a goddess…Her eyes were penetrating, they told her, and would she bring them just one more measure of whiskey? She'd grown used to it the long while she'd been working there, since her husband, Willem, disappeared.  
  
Goin' out for a bit've of fun wi' the boys, he'd said. Be back before dawn, he'd said. I love you, he'd said. That was three years ago. She stopped crying two years ago, a week after she'd started work at Billy's, when she'd realized that men, especially husbands, weren't worth crying over anymore. Most of them spent every night there or at one of a dozen places just like it within five miles, drinking their pay and trying desperately to convince her or one of a dozen bar maids to take them home for a bit've fun. Before long, she learned to ignore them. She never even looked them in the eyes anymore…with the exception of him. He was different. With him, she couldn't look away. He was at Billy's tonight; sitting at the same table in the corner he'd been at every night for a week, the stub of a candle casting dancing shadows across his face, it's flame gleaming in his dark eyes. Eyes the same color of the pint of thick, black stout that stood proudly on the table in front of him. As usual, it remained relatively untouched. As usual, she couldn't look away.  
  
When the majority of the clientele was inebriated enough not to notice her absence, she quietly snuck away to his table. She didn't know why. She didn't care why. Wait, she thought, I know exactly why. It was those eyes. She wanted to lose herself in them…maybe she had already. Even now, she felt herself wandering among the rhythmic flames that skipped and jumped about in those two glorious pools of forever. She poured herself into the seat opposite from him, never lifting her gaze from his. He laughed softly, and his face lit up…the face of an angel.  
  
"Good e'en, fair Alice," he took her hand and kissed it gently, "So very kind of you to join me." It didn't even occur to her to inquire as to how he knew her name.  
  
She blushed. "You flatter me, good sir. Fair? Perhaps once. But this…place…has changed that...changed me." She looked around her as she said this, and all but spat the word 'place' from between clenched teeth. It had never occurred to her before just how much she really hated Billy's…and how much the dim lighting hurt her eyes, which welled up with tears not of sadness, but of anger because it was then she realized how much she really hated herself.  
  
"There's still quite a fire in you, lass. Surely it hasn't changed you so much for the worse." He reached out to touch her face gently. She pulled back a moment, then relaxed, pressing his hand to her face with her own. She closed her eyes and Billy's grimy, musky, stinking tavern melted away, replaced by visions of the warm sun on her face as she stretched out on the bank of some river or another…it didn't matter which…the water flowing crystal clear and glimmering on its way to nowhere. The gossamer dress she wore swam in the light, warm breeze, tickling her body with every ripple. She sighed. Eternity.  
  
And Billy's, with all its dank and noise, came rushing back as his hand withdrew. It settled on the table and she looked at it. Delicate, almost translucent, and yet it seemed stronger than any she'd ever felt before. The ring on his finger captivated her, though it was a relatively simple, traditional Celtic design: several intertwining bands forming a criss-cross pattern, never seeming to end. She was determined to lose herself in it, in the glow of the flame, in his face, anything to escape reality. She couldn't bear it anymore. Her eyes welled up, and she let go. Tears streamed down her face and struck the table, running down through the old, worn patterns in the wood. They struck his hands, but he didn't seem to care. He rose from his chair and quickly threw his cloak around her shoulders…too quickly, she thought, but dismissed it as a trick of her now blurred vision.  
  
"Come now, Alice, let us get you out into the open air. 'Tis a beautiful night, sure to clear your mind. You'll forget your troubles in a moment, no doubt," he smiled, "Perhaps sooner." He led her, one arm around her waist, out the door of the tavern. No one noticed them leave.  
  
As she felt her life slipping away, Alice sang quietly to herself. She sang a tune she thought she'd forgotten years before, one her mother taught her after tucking her into bed. It was about a woman whose husband had been lost at sea, feared dead, and who returned to her. In the song, the woman thought she was seeing a ghost, but her husband embraced her, proof that he was flesh and blood. And they lived happily ever after. Rubbish, she thought, laughing a little. She ran her fingers through his hair as he nipped gently, almost lovingly at her neck, drinking deeply from the series of long gashes he'd made there with his teeth, moments after they'd left Billy's. The blood he hadn't been able to catch ran in rivulets down her neck, staining her dress, slipping down to the road where it mingled with the gravel and ran under his shoes. Her head swam. She felt herself begin to float away on the breeze. Freedom. Release. Eternity. She smiled weakly and whispered to him, "Please."   
  
*********  
Los Angeles, Somewhere in Time  
  
As the girl breathed her last, a heavy, painful sigh that seemed to reflect the way he felt, his mind traveled to Alice, so long ago, and back to the girl, nameless, here and now. They looked very much alike, he thought. Words he'd spoken more than a century before suddenly rang in his ears: "Not everyone screams," he felt his eyes welling up, "Not everyone screams…when you kill them." Tears streamed down his face and struck the ground, running through the grooves in the packed earth. They struck her hands, but she didn't seem to care.


	2. Eternity (2/7)

He opened his eyes. How long had he been in that alley? An hour? Ten? He checked his watch. It read 8 a.m. No, it can't be, he thought, must've stopped. But, as he looked up, the sun told him otherwise. Warm, glorious, golden, it shone in his eyes, blinding him, but he didn't care. He let it wash over his face. He felt himself laughing, a soft, satisfied chuckle. He pulled himself up and tossed his coat aside, never taking his eyes of the brilliant blue of the morning sky. He spun wildly around in circles, laughing loudly now, the sound of a man who had just been saved. He was positively beaming as he walked out of the alley and into the world, which seemed so much more beautiful by the light of day. He saw young children playing happily in the park across the street, a place some of the most hardened thugs wouldn't dare venture once night fell. People went about their lives, filing down the street just as they did at night, but somehow the dull sense of fear, of desperation was gone. He took it all in and refused to let it go. This was life. Salvation. Release...  
  
...And then he burst into flames.  
******  
He awoke, screaming, in his own bed, enveloped in darkness. He checked his watch. It read 9 p.m. A day had passed since the alley...since the girl...since he'd been called to bear witness to another innocent death, but it seemed mere minutes. Yet another curse of eternity with a soul: not only did he have to relive those deaths he'd caused, but also the ends of those he'd been unable to save. It seemed, sometimes, that the latter outnumbered the former. At any rate, those he'd lost always seemed to wail the loudest...especially when he shut his eyes.  
  
Once he'd regained as much of a grip on reality as his situation afforded him, he stood up. Just as every night before, he felt the familiar gnawing. It wasn't a hunger, not really. Rather, it was a pull he felt to his very core. It was as if everything he was in body and mind was unraveling one strand at a time, just as every night before. He'd give anything to feel mere hunger...He wished to God he were starving.  
  
As he made his way through the rather large apartment -one of half a dozen he kept in the city lest he be caught at dawn with no place to go- he flipped switches here and there as various lamps flickered on. He didn't need the light -after centuries of nights, he could now see in total darkness- but sometimes doing something so mundane, so remarkably human, helped him forget what he was... if only for a moment.  
  
He reached the immaculately white kitchen, the smallest room in the apartment, and opened the refrigerator door. Lining two of the refrigerator's three racks were several clear plastic pouches, each one filled with human blood. He took one, ripped it open with his teeth, and drained it dry. Here's to modern technology, he thought. Time was he would have fed on pigeons and rats...creatures no one would miss. Now, a simple call to Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy and an envelope of cash, and he had a fresh delivery every week. There's nothing people won't do if the price is right. And for a little extra, they won't even ask questions.  
  
It took him a moment to realize he was still standing in the harsh yellow light spilling from the open refrigerator. The way the dark maroon, almost purple color of the blood turned to bright red here and there where the light struck it had a curious modern art feel to it, he mused. He noticed a few bottles of stout on the last shelf that he'd forgotten about. Alcohol had little effect on him now, but he always kept some around. A force of habit, he supposed, as he'd spent much of his time as a man drunk. He and his friends were regularly thrown out of one bar at dusk, moved directly on to another, and continued in much the same fashion until they'd gone through six or seven, sometimes having to stagger as far as Cork or some other neighboring town. In fact, the brand he now kept was the same he and his mates favored all those years ago, save the fact that they always drank it warm. Things never really change, though. He took a bottle, closed the refrigerator, and started toward the living room.  
  
  
Set in the wall in front of the large leather sofa, where most people would put a television set, there was a fireplace. He didn't own a television set. He pushed a button on the wall and the fireplace roared to life. After losing himself in it for a moment (or an hour, he couldn't tell which), the flame gleaming in his dark eyes, he sank down into the sofa. He sipped from the bottle and tasted nothing. Suddenly very angry, he tossed it to the fire. It missed by some two feet and shattered; thick suds crept slowly down the wall.  
  



	3. Eternity (3/7)

Galway, Ireland 1753  
  
"Liam," the voice was muffled. "Liam, yeh bleedin' eejit, get up."  
  
He lifted his head. For just a moment, he was profoundly startled to find himself propped up on a bar in a remarkably dank tavern, surrounded by drained mugs and empty bottles, instead of in a warm, comfortable bed surrounded by luxurious furs and beautiful women. "Dreams are lovely," he managed to croak, wondering why his throat could be so dry when it was obvious he'd drank enough to kill a horse.   
  
He looked to his left, and wondered who the strange, blurry fellow putting his arm around him was. He was about to ask when the boisterous, drunken laugh gave it away. Peter McConnell. It made sense, really. They'd come to the tavern together, after all. They always came to taverns together. "Come now, missy. Don't tell me yeh've given up already. There's drinkin' yet to be done." Peter paused, as though he'd forgotten something terribly important. After a moment, his eyes lit up, remembering just what it was he'd intended to do. He slapped the bar so hard it shook. "Barkeep," he bellowed in his unique voice, which always sounded to Liam as if it were a combination of thunder and Guinness, "Two more here, good sir. Be quick about it and yeh'll earn yourself a few extra schillings, I give you my word."  
  
Peter was the sort who never seemed to have any money of his own, but acted as though he did as he actively spent the money of those kind enough to befriend him. He didn't mind, though. Peter was good company. He was a big, jovial bastard by nature and became even more so when he'd had a bit to drink. And it always paid to have such a large friend around should a fight break out, which it almost invariably did. So, he kept Peter around. Hell, there was more money. There always would be, thanks to his father's habit of keeping a purse full of silver hidden under the floorboards in every bedroom of his house. He played the shrewd businessman, but his father never trusted bankers. As such, he kept quite a bit of money stashed around, should, God forbid, something terrible ever happen. He was very much a man concerned with the future, while his son, barely able to picture himself at the end of any given night let alone be concerned with his future, helped himself to whatever amounts he deemed necessary, sometimes going back two or three times a night for more.   
  
As the night progressed, the number of empty bottles and drained mugs on the bar multiplied, spilling over to include intricately constructed pyramids on tables and here and there on the floor. And as their numbers grew, Peter, the big, jovial bastard, became less jovial and more bastard. Liam, too, found himself becoming more aggressive...though, he mused, he did seem to laugh more the drunker he got. He looked over to Peter, arguing with a man old enough to be his father over a hand of cards. Peter's face grew as red as the sunrise and that beastly voice of his grew even louder. It wouldn't be long now, he was sure of that. May as well have a little fun with it, he thought.  
  
He grabbed the nearest woman, a pretty little thing of no more than nineteen or twenty, scooped her up, and began dancing around the room with her in broad, drunken circles. "You're very light on your feet, milady," he remarked, though he knew she was so light that he held her inches off the floor with no effort at all. Then he felt the rough tap on his shoulder, and he smiled. It won't be long now at all. He let go of the girl, turned, and found a rather large fellow with a rather large frown on his face staring down at him.  
  
"Do you mind if I ask you what your doin' wi' me wife?" he said, rather calmly.  
  
"No worries. We were only having ourselves a little dance..." the better part of him knew to walk away, but, fortunately, the better part of him was drunk as hell and was in no position to make a moral decision of any kind. "Of course," he continued, "if you're jealous, I'd be happy to dance with you as well." He grabbed the man by both hands and proceeded to dance around with him in much the same fashion he had with his wife, with the exception of it was now he who was lifted off the floor...and thrown several feet, crashing down on the table Peter had been playing cards at. He looked up at Peter, a glance passed between them, and the absolute bear of a man leapt, smiling, at his new prey.  
  
It wasn't long before every able-bodied man, drunk or otherwise had tossed himself into the maelstrom. Liam found himself fending off boys no older than sixteen, boys who had probably drunk their first pint no more than an hour before, and men who'd been drinking all their lives, swinging at him with canes from their seats. Throughout it all, he felt the same pair of eyes on him: those of a strikingly beautiful woman, dressed nobly...too nobly for such a place. But those eyes...he continued tossing and dodging punches, but only half-heartedly. Those eyes. It was getting harder and harder to look away. She was talking with the barmaid now. The way she kept looking toward him, he knew they were talking about him. He smiled at her. She smiled back as two words floated across his mind: Darling boy. Before he had time to wonder about them, a bottle shattered over his head...and the world went dark.  
  
When he opened his eyes, he saw the ground, bouncing along some six feet below him. To some, this would be an odd and perhaps frightening sight. To him, it was an old friend. "Peter," he laughed, yelling over the heavy, horse-like clop of his friend's shoes. "Peter, you stupid bastard, put me the hell down." Peter stopped and put him down, a look of rejection coming across his otherwise blank features. The same thing happened nearly every night. Just as always, he threw his arm around Peter's shoulder and the look disappeared. "Come on, yeh feckin' wee girl," he said, thickening up his accent to sound just like the old men always found in taverns; those that could drink even them under the table. "I'll buy yeh a pint. MacSorley's shouldn't have closed its doors quite yet, I imagine." And so they went, as always, off to drink themselves into oblivion, silent, dark, and sweet.  
  



	4. Eternity (4/7)

The following night passed itself in much the same fashion: a spirited round of drinking, followed by a spirited round of fighting, followed by an even more spirited round of drinking. He and Peter had both fallen into a deep, drunken sleep when the cold slap of the cobblestone road woke them. They'd been...evicted from MacSorley's, a place even the insects found repulsive. Peter spun awkwardly around, ready to strike, but stopped in his tracks when he saw just who had thrown them out: a man twice his size and three times his weight...a man everyone called, simply, "The Ox". Even Peter, dense as he was, knew better than to challenge The Ox when he'd made a decision.  
  
"And a good night to you too, sir." Liam called after The Ox as he slammed the door to the tavern. "Come on, gobshite," he said, giving Peter a shove. "The night's young still, and..." he paused, making himself seem as large as he could, mocking Peter's hulking stance "...there's drinkin' yet to be done!" They both laughed at this, though, judging by the dim expression on Peter's face, he suspected his friend hadn't caught this little dig at his character. "But first, home for..." he held up and empty coin purse "...provisions."  
  
As they reached his family's home, he advised Peter to wait outside, lest his somewhat clumsy gait should rouse them from their beds. He worked his key in the lock, eased open the door, crept inside, and was utterly surprised to see his father, sitting, staring at the door with a candle in hand, the flame gleaming in his dark eyes.  
  
"Good evenin', father. Glad to see you've taken an interest in...staring at the door."  
"As should you," his father's face turned from a mask of indifference to an unmistakable scowl, something he'd perfected with years of practice, "After all, you'll not be goin' through it again. Not tonight."  
  
"I'm afraid I have to disagree, father. I've important business to attend to yet."   
  
"Not if you wish to remain in my household." He knew his father was absolutely serious.   
  
He turned and was about to walk out, his hand already on the door handle, when he heard muffled sobs coming from the far wall. He moved in closer and saw his mother and sister, Kathy, standing in a doorway...darling, innocent, naive Kathy. She thought the world of him...and he thought the world of her. They shared their secrets, thoughts, dreams...even their fears. Kathy was the only one who knew he still slept with a candle burning most nights. He felt tears in his eyes. He walked slowly over to them, concentrating to keep himself from stumbling. He'd rather die than have his sister think less of him.   
  
He took his mother's hand and kissed her cheek. A glance passed between them and he swore he saw pity in her eyes. He looked down and saw she'd slipped a few bank notes into his palm. He tried to look at her again, but couldn't bring himself to it. Instead, he knelt to face his sister, a girl just turned ten and yet there was so much of the nobility of a woman in her. He took her face in his hands and wiped away a tear. "Sweet Kathy," he whispered, "No tears...we'll meet again."  
  
"Defy me now, you won't. Not as long as I live." his father's voice, thundering and full of conviction erupted behind him.  
  
He let his hand brush his sister's face reassuringly once more before turning around, raising up to look his father in the eye. He moved toward him. "You'll want to move away from the door now, father," he said, matter-of-factly.  
  
"Go through it, but don't ever expect to come back." He detected a note of sadness in his father's otherwise harsh tone.  
  
"As you wish, father. Always just as you wish." He moved past him, toward the door. His father blocked his way again.  
  
"It's a son I wished for -a man! Instead, God gave me you," he looked him up and down, as if assessing a broken down horse, "A terrible disappointment."  
  
He turned around once again, suddenly very angry. "Disappointment?" he spat the word. "A more dutiful son you couldn't have asked for. My whole life you've told me, in word, in glance, what it is you've required of me, and I've lived down to your every expectation, now haven't I?"  
  
"That's madness!"  
  
"No. The madness is that I couldn't fail enough for you. But we'll fix that now, won't we?" he smiled a forced, painful smile.  
"I fear for you, lad" his father looked away, but he followed, his gaze never wavering from his father's eyes.  
  
"And is that the only thing you can find in your heart for me now, father?"  
  
His father stammered, and it seemed, for the first time in his life, that the old man was unsure of what to say. Finally: "Who will take you in? No one!" there was no real conviction in his voice anymore, just pleading.  
  
"I'll not lack for a place to sleep, I can tell you that. Out of my way."  
  
"I was never in your way, boy." His father's lip trembled as his own eyes filled with tears. He pushed him aside and dashed out the door, into the night.   
  
As he ran, vision blurred, with Peter staggering along somewhere behind him, he heard his father call after him: "If you go courting trouble, you're sure to find it!"  
  
The next few hours were a blur of whiskey. The usual stout wasn't fast enough as far as he was concerned. Besides, one could, if one were so inclined, persuade the barkeep to leave the entire bottle when it came to whiskey. At first, he grimaced at the burning warmth the thick, brown liquid left behind as it made its way down his throat. After a few deep swallows, though, he came to wonder how he'd ever survived without it. It filled the emptiness. It helped him forget what he was, if only for a moment. And so, he drank more, foregoing he and Peter's usual drinking games for simple, pure, alcoholic bliss.  
  
Once he'd sufficiently forgotten what he'd been drinking to forget, he beckoned Peter and they made their way toward the door. He heard Peter, seeming miles away, ask where exactly they were going. He didn't answer. He didn't know. He only knew it was somewhere dreadfully important and that he must get there as quickly as possible. Three steps out the door, Peter fainted dead away. He looked down at him and smiled, filled with a sense of self-satisfaction in knowing that he'd finally out drank the man who always seemed to have a bit more drinking to do.  
  
"Why don't you rest right here?" he gave his friend's relatively lifeless form a good, swift kick and then lost total interest. He looked around a moment, unsure of where to go...and then he caught a glimpse of golden hair and...those eyes. He followed them into the alley behind MacSorley's, though he would have willingly followed them into Hell itself. They stopped, and turned to face him, their owner, the face he couldn't get out of his mind looking exactly as it had the night before.  
  
"So I ask myself," he began, trying his best to sound suave despite the obvious slur in his speech, "What's a lady of your station doing alone in an alley with the reputation that this one has?"   
  
She turned away. "Maybe she's lonely."  
  
"In that case, I'd offer myself as escort to protect you from harm, and to while away the dull hours."  
  
"You're very gracious," she said, her back still turned to him.  
  
He laughed a little. "It's often been said."  
  
She turned around to face him again. "Are you certain you're up to the challenge?"  
  
"Milady, you'll find that, with the exception of an honest day's work, there's no challenge I'm not prepared to face." He moved in closer, once again unable to look away from those eyes. "Oh, but you're a pretty thing. Where are you from?"  
  
She smiled and he found himself unable to move...and he didn't want to. "Around." She said, "Everywhere."  
  
He stumbled over his words. "I...I've never been anywhere myself. Always wanted to see the world, but my father..." A single finger pressed to his lips silenced him.  
  
"I could show you."  
  
"Could you then?" he put his hands on her hips. She nodded.  
  
"Things you've never seen...never even heard of."  
  
"Sound's exciting." His voice was barely a whisper.  
  
"It is. And frightening."  
  
"I'm not afraid. Show me...show me your world."  
  
She closed her eyes and nodded reassuringly, "Close your eyes."  
  
He did as he was told and felt a loving hand on his shoulder. And then...the pain was exquisite. He opened his eyes, staring at the night sky with...complete fascination. The stars were there, as always, but they seemed to speak to him, now, though there were no words. Only soft, soothing tones, urging him to let go...to give in to eternity. He felt his legs give out...felt himself fall to his knees. He saw her...pulling a perfectly manicured fingernail across her chest...and then there was blood. She pressed his face to her bosom...and then everything felt...on fire...but that didn't matter now. All that mattered was the night...silent, dark and sweet. Before he felt the world fade away, two words floated across his mind: "Darling boy."  



	5. Eternity (5/7)

He slept. The world moved around him, and he slept. They laid him to rest, and he slept. He dreamed he could hear them; the priest's words, empty now: "Lord, receive this, your humble servant. We pray that you may take his eternal soul into your care, Father. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." He laughed to himself, silently, as he heard the drops of holy water thundering on the coffin lid. Then silence. After a moment, the drops started again, accompanied by tiny, whimpering sobs. They weren't the holy water now, he realized. They were tears. Her tears. His Kathy was crying. He heard her whisper to him: "Don't leave me, Liam." He wanted to whisper back, wanted to tell her that all would be well, they would be together again, but he couldn't remember how to speak. No matter, he thought. They would have their time, he was sure.  
*****  
  
He awoke to find himself clawing wildly at an earthen prison, pulling himself up an inch at a time. He had to get out, had to be free. His veins were on fire. It was an eternity before his hands finally felt the cool night air. And then he sprawled on the ground, his back pressed to the cool, damp earth, eyes staring at the sky. The stars were there again, as always...but they were silent now.   
  
He felt her standing over him. She offered her hand and when he took it, she smiled. He felt as though he would burst into tears if only he could remember how to cry. She spoke, and the world fell away:  
  
"Welcome to my world. It hurts, I know, but not for long." She ran a hand through his hair, still caked with grave mud. "Birth is always painful."  
  
He struggled to see past the pain, gasping instinctively for breath though, somehow, he knew he didn't need to. "I could feel them above me...as I slept in the earth." He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to focus on the world around him "Their heartbeats...their blood...coursing through their veins."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Was it a dream?" He felt himself slipping. The pain...the need...it was all he could do not to scream.  
  
She laughed. "A dream for you...soon, their nightmare."  
  
He heard rustling behind them, and turned to see an elderly man, the groundskeeper, holding a lantern by his face. "You there, what have you done?" the man gasped, "Grave robbers!" He could smell the blood in him. The pain grew worse and the world grew hazier, save for the tiny figure of the man. Soon, it was all he could see. Somewhere behind him, in the deep, he heard her whisper: "You know what to do." She was right. He knew.  
  
He felt himself...his face...changing. His teeth grew sharper and protruded farther from his gums. His eyes grew keener and the world came into view again. He felt something within him stir...something primal...something evil. And he liked it. He started toward the man as he heard him stutter a prayer he obviously hadn't said in years: "Our Father, who art in Heaven...Hallowed be thy name...thy Kingdom come...thy will be done...give us this day our daily bread." He closed on him, and the man dropped his lantern and was silent. He felt the hot blood fill his mouth and was at peace.  
  
He felt the life leave the old man swiftly, and was forced to drop him once he'd drained all that the dying heart would allow. His head swam. The pain was gone now. He looked down at the pitiful, crumpled, fragile form of the man he'd just killed...Just killed, he thought...and yet, there was no remorse...no guilt. There was just the warm, wonderful feeling of the man's blood now coursing through his own veins. And he was perfectly happy. He felt his features relaxing, becoming what they once were. He turned to her...she was smiling.  
  
"It all makes perfect sense now, doesn't it?" She took his hand, stroking it gently, lovingly.  
  
"Perfect sense." He laughed a little. It was all so clear now.   
  
"You can do anything...Have anyone in the village." She hooked her arm around his, "Who will it be?"  
  
"Any one?" he raised an eyebrow as if disappointed. "I thought I'd take the village."  
*****  
  
For weeks he picked them off one by one. The men at the taverns first...the old and feeble who spent their nights at cards...then his friends, old Mickey, the barkeep at MacSorley's, Kevin, who always told the funniest and most vulgar jokes...the pretty young girl whom he'd danced with one night...and her husband, who came so valiantly to her aid, running and locking himself in the toilet as the first drop of her blood touched his lips...he took him anyway...and scores of others. Darla, his maker, was always there at first, always standing just behind him, watching him, until he'd learned enough to venture out on his own, when he insisted she stay behind. This was his night.   
  
He picked something fine from the wardrobe Darla had provided him: A gentlemen's suit of royal blue with white lace cuffs, and a fine oak walking stick. He even tied his hair back in the gentlemanly way, something he never would have done when he was alive. But, after all, this was a special night. She looked at him approvingly and smiled. His spirits were high as he stepped out into the crystal clear twilight, completely focused on his objective: He had to start with Peter. It simply couldn't be any other way.  
  



	6. Eternity (6/7)

He strolled along the nearly deserted streets of Galway, taking the odd straggler who was too drunk or too dumb to have found his way inside. They weren't to satiate his hunger, but merely to keep him amused while he waited for Peter to turn up, just as he knew he would. It was simply a matter of finding the right bar.   
  
He found him at the gentleman's tavern in the center of town sometime shortly after one o' clock...he wasn't sure exactly what time it was. He didn't carry a watch anymore. He didn't need to. He loved the way he could smell the sunrise coming. And a watch would take some of the sport out of it, he thought. At any rate, he'd found him. Or rather he heard him, his voice booming out one of their favorite drinking songs through the open door.  
  
The place had no real name; the sign sported only the universal picture of a half-filled goblet. Most of the upper class couldn't read, anyway; they were all too busy being refined. He simply knew the place as a haven for powdered-wig wearing poofs with too much money, who drank nothing but wine, played nothing but chess and baccarat, and talked about nothing but politics, of which they understood nothing...What the hell was Peter doing here?  
  
He walked in, peering around the room curiously, almost cautiously. Just as he'd thought, drained wine glasses and marble chessboards lay here and there on the richly adorned tabletops, accompanied by the occasional white glove or jeweled snuff box; all the earmarks of those who fancied themselves noblemen, but were little more than glorified snobs. In fact, the only thing that did surprise him was that the place was completely empty, save for the lone, familiar figure of Peter, massive form hunched over a pint, singing away. He laughed a little as he moved closer, pounding his footsteps loudly on the carpeted floor, though he suspected Peter knew he was there already.  
  
"Here yeh are, yeh feckin' gobshite," he slurred, mimicking Peter's thick Irish drawl. "I leave yeh alone for a fortnight and yeh're already mingling with the ponces." He picked up a half empty mug, took a sip, and finished dramatically, " 'Tis a feckin' shame...what are we to do with yeh, then?"   
  
Peter turned slowly in his chair, draining his pint the whole way. Having finished, he flung it across the room where it shattered on a far wall. "I'm here because it's the only place in all of Galway that's not been locked tight because of you, yeh feckin' godless bastard." Peter paused a moment, looking him over with a drunken grin. "And if I were you," he continued, "I'd be careful who I was callin' a ponce." He laughed, that guttural, heart-filled laugh...Peter's laugh; the laugh he loved to hear over many a spirited round of digs at one another. Why, then, did it fill him with so much anger? He felt his face change again into that feral, demonic visage he'd become so accustomed to in the short time since he'd been made. Curiously, Peter didn't even blink.  
He didn't even look surprised.  
  
"I'd figured it was going to be somethin' like that," he grunted. "Well, I suppose yeh'd better get on with it then, if yeh're gonna." He turned away. "Otherwise, leave me feckin' be. There's drinkin' yet to be done."  
  
He grabbed Peter around the neck and yanked him roughly to his feet. "Yeh're quite right about that." And he closed on him.  
*****  
  
Los Angeles, Somewhere in Time  
  
He fell on his knees in front of the fireplace, sobs racking his form. Though he wept for Peter, and the many friends and neighbors he'd killed before him, he wept most for the thought of what he knew was coming; what he knew he'd have to relive yet again. Another curse of his eternity: He was denied the luxury of choosing his pain. It came at him all at once...and the most painful of it all was his darling Kathy.  



	7. Eternity (7/7)

*****  
Galway, Ireland 1753  
*****  
He left Peter lying on the road outside the tavern, a position his friend found himself in quite often in life. This time, though, there'd be no sleeping it off. Peter had finally found the oblivion he'd so often searched for at the bottom of a pint. He considered it a final gift to someone who had brought him so much amusement...though never so much as in those last moments, staring Death himself in the face and yet playing the part of the stubborn drunk as perfectly as ever.  
  
He straightened his cuffs and neatened the silk ribbon that tied his hair as he neared his family's home. Now comes the most important part of the game, he thought. It was imperative he look his absolute best. He tossed his walking stick aside, suddenly realizing how foolish it was. It was their time now, and her Liam would never carry a walking stick.  
  
He crept around to the east side of the house, where her bedroom was. He laughed to himself when he realized he could hear her breathing...living on the inside. He tapped gently on the window and watched as she stirred. He whispered her name and she sat up immediately, wide-eyed and alert. She ran to the window, unlatching it with the bright, toothy smile he could never forget.   
  
"Liam!" she squealed. "I knew you wouldn't leave me. I prayed to God every day that you'd come back."  
  
"Aye, Kathy, it was that very thing...the Lord, just and kind as he is, heard your prayers and returned me to you. He knew we couldn't be apart for long." He shivered dramatically, "But even those returned from Heaven can catch a chill on a Galway night."  
  
"Come in, then silly," then, amazed, she whispered "Returned from Heaven?"  
  
He climbed in smiling, "Just for you."  
  
"My own angel?" there was that smile again.   
  
"Your very own, love. I'd show you my wings, but I'm afraid the Almighty's a bit strict about that sort of thing. Even a single feather and I'd be sent back immediately, no arguments."  
  
She laughed, "I can't see your halo either?"  
  
"I'm afraid not...not even a glimmer." He laughed with her.  
  
"I kept a candle lit for you every night, Liam." She pointed to a small nightstand where a candle burned brightly, down to a stub. "Could you see it all the way up there in Heaven?"  
  
"I could indeed, Kathy. How do you think I found my way here, then?" He put her on his knee the way he used to when she was younger, "That tiny flame shined all the way up to me in Heaven, and I followed it down here to your window."  
  
She looked at him, beaming. "Where'd ya get such a nice suit?"  
  
"Come now, you don't think God would let an angel make an appearance in those awful rags I wore, do you?"  
  
A look of fear crept onto her face. "I'm so glad you came back, Liam. It's been so awful here. Something horrible...something..." she suddenly burst into tears.  
  
He put his arms around her, hugging her tight to him, rocking her gently. "Hush now, sweet Kathy. No worries. I'm here."  
  
"Forever?"  
  
"Forever, love..." he bent his head toward her neck, fangs bared, tears streaming down his face. "...Eternity."  
  
*****  
...Somewhere in time, he wished he'd died with her...and somewhere in time, part of him did.  
*****  
  
He crept into his mother's bedroom and took her as she slept. He took a handkerchief and wiped the bit of blood that still flowed from the wounds he'd made in her now cold flesh, pulled the blanket up to her chin and fluffed her pillows. He got up, went over to her small dressing table, and slipped a few bank notes into one of the drawers, the exact amount she'd given him the last time they'd met. He kissed her on the forehead and whispered, "I don't need your pity now, mother." He got up, blowing out the candle he'd taken from his sister's room. "Goodnight."  
  
He went back to Kathy, lying in her bed just as he'd left her. He stared at her for what seemed like hours. She was so peaceful...her skin so pale, her hair so dark...A little smile still playing on her lips...She looked just like an angel...His darling Kathy...his very own angel. He picked her up gently, cradling her like an infant. He heard the sound of a hammer coming somewhere from the kitchen, and so he followed it, carrying his sister with him.  
  
When he reached it, the kitchen reeked of garlic and incense. He saw his father hammering great strands of garlic bulbs over the doorway, and would have laughed, had it not been for his sister. He would do nothing to profane the memory of the sweet, innocent thing he held in his arms. Silently, softly, he put her down against the wall of the doorway he'd come through, again whispering an almost silent "Goodnight," meant only for the two of them.  
  
He leaned against the wall, watching his father another moment before he spoke: "You're no different from the rest of them, are you, father?" The old man spun around, a look of complete fear in his eyes. He laughed. "Cowering in their houses, boarding up their windows...smearing that foul-smelling herb in the doorways. You'd think that something evil...and vile..." He paused after every beat, taking a step toward his father with each word, "...and monstrous...had taken to terrorizing this village and everyone in it."  
  
His father held up the hammer he'd been using, as if in warning. "Be gone, unclean thing," he all but screamed. "A demon cannot enter a home where it's not welcome." He had backed into the front doorway now, having nowhere else to go. "He must be invited!"  
  
"That's true...but I was invited." He motioned toward Kathy, slumped in the doorway, and his father gasped. "She thought I'd returned to her...an angel."  
  
The old man charged at him with his hammer, his eyes a mix of tears, desperation, and fear...mostly fear. He screamed the hopeless scream of the already dead: "Murderer!" and was cast to the ground with the wave of a hand.   
  
"Strange," he said as his father backed away in fear, pushing himself against the wall and to his feet, "You seemed taller when I was alive."  
  
"Lord, bind this demon now..." his father was crying now, and it made him stop in his tracks for a second. It was something he wasn't prepared for...but a welcome surprise, he thought.  
  
"To think I ever let such a tiny, trembling thing make me feel the way you did." He moved towards him, slowly, step-by-step, letting his thick leather boots echo loudly off the hardwood floor.  
  
"I pray ye, give me your protection, Father." He crossed himself, pushing against the wall, as if he were trying to disappear into it.  
  
"You told me I wasn't a man." He watched his shadow slowly cover the cowering figure of his father. "You told me I was nothing..." he spat. "...And I believed you." He was almost upon him now. "But you see father," he let his face change again, savoring the look that came over his father's face. There was the surprise...the fear that he'd wanted to see when he'd taken Peter. "Well you were wrong." He hissed, "You see father, I have made something of myself after all." He sank his fangs in, and the world slipped away.  
  
*****  
He came slowly back to reality when he heard her delicate footsteps come through the front door. He looked to her, smiling, sipping playfully from his father's mug of ale he'd found half-full on the table.  
  
She raised an eyebrow at him. "The contest has ended, is it?"  
  
"Of course." He was surprised at her question, "I proved who had the power here."  
She looked away, casually scanning the room, her eyes stopping for a second when she caught sight of little Kathy. She smiled. "You think?"  
  
"What?"  
  
She turned back, "Your victory over him took but moments."  
  
He was curious now, "Yes?"  
  
"But his defeat of you will last lifetimes."  
  
He laughed angrily "What are you talking about?" he stood up, gesturing towards the crumpled body in the corner, "He can't defeat me now."  
  
She put a hand on his shoulder. "Nor can he ever approve of you -in this world or any other." She moved behind him, slipping her arms around his waist, laying her head against his back, "What we once were informs all that we have become...The same love will infect our hearts...even if they no longer beat." She took a step and turned, looking him in the eyes, "Simple death won't change that."  
  
The confusion washed over his face. "Love? Is this the work of love?"  
  
She took him in her arms again, "Darling boy...so young. Still so very young." He was about to speak when she put a finger to his lips "No worries, my love. You have forever to learn. Eternity is yours."  
  
  



End file.
